1. Hi Latharn, can you tell us a bit about yourself?
Good day to ye.
*Latharn casts a furtive glance about the room while flexing his massive arms*
Do ye mind keeping your voice a bit lower? If Deardha realizes my awareness travels out of the crystal, the vile witch will damn me straight to the abyss.
*He relaxes a bit, a sad smile tugging at the corner of his sensuous, full lips*
Have ye ever heard the saying, “Hell hath no fury like that of a woman scorned?” Well, I’m here to tell ye they should add a bit more to that phrase. Hell hath no fury like that of a woman scorned−and god help yer arse if the woman is a witch. I’ve been trapped in a crystal for over six hundred years, waiting for my beloved Nessa to finally speak the words to break the curse. I can speak to you and to my descendants guarding the crystal, but the curse forbids me to speak to Nessa when I appear in her dreams.
*Latharn cocks a suggestive brow and gives a wicked grin*
But e’en though I canna speak to Nessa, I communicate with her in many other ways.
2. I understand you’re a real ladies’ man, what’s your secret?
Aye. I suppose ye might say that. My so-called charm is what landed me in this damn crystal in the first place.
*He folds his arms across an expansive chest and glowers*
I have no idea why the lasses chase after me so. ‘Tis as if no one has ever shown them a bit of kindness. Mother said was because I always loved the bairns. Apparently, women tend to be rather tenderhearted toward a man who protects the little ones.
*Latharn leans forward with a teasing wink*
Of course, the lasses seemed verra satisfied with the way I treated them in other ways as well.
3. Any advice for modern men who would like to have more success with the ladies?
*His eyes widen as he shakes head*
Hell no. The women of this time are complicated confusing creatures. Their beauty steals your breath away while their strange ideas boggle the mind.
*Latharn frowns while thoughtfully tapping a finger against his lips*
But then again, they seem to like it if ye truly listen when they speak.
4. What’s under the kilt?
*Warm, rich laughter rumbles from his well-muscled torso as his smile widens*
Why a man’s pride of course!
*And then he adds another wicked wink*
And ye might take care about asking a Highlander such a question−he’s just apt to show ye.
5. How did you meet your author?
*Latharn's face takes on a faraway look*
This strange flitting creature broke into my isolation one day. I believe she called herself a muse. She showed me the path to Maeve’s dreams so I might tell my story.
6. What’s she like?
*His grin widens*
Maeve Greyson? She’s a fine woman.
*He leans forward with a sympathetic nod*
Of course, ye understand, she’s a bit addled and something of a dreamer but a good woman nonetheless.
7. How can our readers find you and buy your book?
*Taps chin and frowns*
I believe Maeve told me “Beyond a Highland Whisper” is available from a place called The Wild Rose Press and another place called Amazon? She mentioned several other places as well but for the life of me, I canna recall all she said.
*Latharn shakes his head with a confused look*
She told me that Wild Rose Place fair exploded with tales of passion and excitement. She seemed verra fond of this Wild Rose Press –even called it a garden everyone loved.
8. Anything you’d like to add?
*Latharn's eyes narrow as he casts a worried glance around the room again*
My time grows short. I’d best be getting back lest Deardha sense my energy outside of the globe. I’ve truly enjoyed our visit. The cold isolation of my prison sometimes gnaws at the edges of my sanity. Maeve said ye might like a bit of a peek into our tale. Here's a part I'm no' particularly fond of. 'Tis where Deardha casts me into that crystal hell.
Excerpt:
With a crazed laugh, the shriveled old woman transformed before his eyes. Her dry, tangled hair lengthened into flowing black tresses. Her sallow, wrinkled skin smoothed into creamy silk. Her bent frame straightened, blossoming into a shapely woman, breasts full, hips round and firm.
Her eyes remained black as the darkest obsidian, and full red lips curled into a seductive, malicious smile. Her voice became a throaty, honey-laced melody, deadly in its hypnotic tone. “Do ye remember me now, my beautiful Highlander? We were together once, you and I. We were lovers, but now I come here as your judge and jailer. And I have found ye guilty of withholding your heart from the only one who truly deserves your love.”
Her eyes remained black as the darkest obsidian, and full red lips curled into a seductive, malicious smile. Her voice became a throaty, honey-laced melody, deadly in its hypnotic tone. “Do ye remember me now, my beautiful Highlander? We were together once, you and I. We were lovers, but now I come here as your judge and jailer. And I have found ye guilty of withholding your heart from the only one who truly deserves your love.”
“Deardha?” Latharn recoiled from the seductress bearing down upon him.
As she thrust the deep violet globe into his face, Deardha’s voice echoed across the hall. “Aye, Latharn. Ye remember me now? Listen closely to my words. I condemn ye to this eternal prison. I banish ye to this crystal hell. Ye are far too powerful a charmer of magic to be toying with women’s hearts. No longer will I allow ye to sow your seed with any poor fool who warms your bed. If ye willna pledge your heart to me, then ye shall wish that ye were dead.” As Deardha uttered the spell, blinding white energy swirled from the tips of her long pale fingers. The shimmering tendrils flowed and curled, constricting around Latharn’s body.
With an enraged scream, Rachel broke free of Deardha’s binding spell. Forcing her way between Latharn and the witch, she clawed at Deardha’s face.
“Mother, no!” Latharn roared, fighting against the tightening bands of the curse meshed about his body. “Ye must get away from her. Save yourself!” He couldn’t breathe. His heartbeat slowed and the room darkened around him.. This must be what it felt like to die. Latharn struggled to focus his eyes.
The conflicting forces threw Rachel across the room as Deardha’s field of malevolence blasted against the walls. The winds howled and roared as the demonic chaos ripped throughout the castle. Then all fell silent just as swift as the storm had risen and a fog of sorrow settled over the room. Latharn shuddered awake to an icy smoothness pressed against his spine. Finding his arms freed, he flexed his hands, wincing as he rolled his bruised and battered shoulders. Where was he? He lifted his head, staring about in disbelief at the see-through globe enclosed around his body.
Everyone eased their way out from where they’d taken cover: they crawled out from under tables, from behind overturned benches. Eyes wide with fear, they glanced about the room to see if the attack was over.
Latharn spread his hands on the curved, cold glass. What were they doing? Why did they mill around him like he wasn’t there? It was as though he sat among their feet on the floor. What the hell were they doing?
The serving lads rushed to re-light the torches lining the walls. The scattered clansmen and villagers rose from the floor, checking each other for injuries. Tables and benches lay about the room like scattered rushes strewn across the floor. Tapestries and tartans hung in tattered strips, nothing left on the standards but bits of colored shreds.
Laird MacKay shoved his way through the wreckage to his wife. Rachel lay in a crumpled heap beside the hearth, her weakened breath barely moving her chest.
“Mother!” Latharn shouted against the glass. If she was dead it would be no one’s fault but his own. Standing, Latharn stretched to see if Rachel would move.
Laird MacKaycradled her against his chest, pressing his lips to her forehead until she opened her eyes.
Rachel struggled to lift her head, her eyes widening with disbelief as she looked across the room directly toward Latharn. Lifting her hand, her voice cracked with pain as she keened her sorrow to all who remained in the great hall. “My baby!” she sobbed. Waving her trembling hand toward her son, she buried her face in Caelan’s chest.
Latharn closed his eyes against the sight of his mother rocking herself against her pain. As her wails grew louder, he covered his ears and roared to drown out the sound.
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